


such great heights

by pennyofthewild



Category: Free!
Genre: (till free!es 9 at least), 2016 Summer Olympics, Canon Compliant, Experimental Style, Future-fic, M/M, Olympic fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:56:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyofthewild/pseuds/pennyofthewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[It has been a month and a half since the term began: two months since they moved to Tokyo and Rin began training for the Olympics. Six months since the disastrous meet that landed Sousuke in physiotherapy and Haruka in a counselor’s office.]</p><p>In Rio de Janeiro, Rin and Haru climb to the top of Christ the Redeemer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	such great heights

**Author's Note:**

> For [butleronduty](http://butleronduty.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.
> 
> ~~This is more or less canon-compliant until episode nine of Free!ES. Posting before ten comes along and ruins that.~~  
>  ~~For the purpose of this fic, the interior of Christ the Redeemer is easier to climb than it would actually be.~~
> 
> [listen](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mXEq7WiINa4)  
> [arted by amoosebouche/butleronduty.](http://amoosebouche.tumblr.com/post/96528714332/they-wont-see-us-waving-from-such-great) I am not worthy.

“Eyes closed, Haru, come on. Climbing stairs isn’t that hard. Just put one foot in front of the other.”

_(It isn’t hard. Especially not with the guidance of the dry, warm fingers enclosed around your wrist. You’ve always been stubborn, however. You aren’t sure when it – the stubbornness – ceased to become an adaptive mechanism and morphed into a habit.)_

 “I told you I didn’t want to do this.”

 “You said that about swimming the relay in grade-school. And about moving to Tokyo. And about winning gold at the Olympics.”

“Shows how much you care for my opinion.”               

_(Once you’ve said something, you can never take it back. You’ve learned this the hard way – but knowing something is hurtful or wrong or impossible to erase does not make it any easier to keep away from. If it was, addicts would not exist.)_

“Damn, Haru, you really know how to hurt a guy.”

_(Sometimes you wonder who the addict is: you, or him.)_

***

This term’s final assignment will be a self-portrait. You are to work on it throughout the term, using whatever media you wish. Your progress will be evaluated periodically by your instructor. You are expected to complete the following stages:

-        Initial plan

-        Freehand sketch

-        Final lines

-        Base/Underpaint

-        Color (which can be black and white)

-        An accompanying essay cataloging your thoughts and feelings about your piece. What do you want this portrait to say about you? What do you want to convey to the world?

***

Haruka stares at his reflection in the mirror.

The mirror is silver framed and full-length, hung on the wall by the easel. The easel is in the corner of the living room, which also functions as a dining room, because Tokyo apartments are incredibly expensive, even for two scholarship students splitting rent.

 _But_ , Haruka thinks, _back to the mirror_. Rectangular, with no embellishments. It can stand alone, but having it on the wall saves space. The frame is chipped on the bottom right corner, where it scraped the front door when Rin carried it in. The chip gives the otherwise bland, boring mirror a glimmer of personality.

 _Although_ , a voice – it sounds distinctly like Makoto –  in Haruka’s head says, _the mirror is not the subject here, Haru-chan. You are._

Haruka sighs and forces himself to focus on the face reflected back at him. Oval-shaped face, sharp chin, blue eyes, pale skin –

_Really, though. I could be anyone._

***

“How much longer am I going to have to do this?”

“You know, Haru, for such a stoic guy you’re awfully impatient.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Remind me – why do I do these things for you?”

 _(_ You love me, _you want to say_. I still don’t understand why: but you do. _You are not entirely sure you want to understand. Some things are better left undisturbed, like the reason you would follow him to the edge of the world if he asked you to, and whether you would choose to keep him from jumping or fall with him, hands clasped tighter than the space in between the beats of your heart.)_

“You’ve been cursed, that’s why.”

“Whoa, there, Haru – be careful.”

“I would be careful, if I could _see where I’m going._ ”

_(His hand is clasped around your elbow now. You can feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of your shirt as if the fabric does not exist: as if this is the first time he has touched you, instead of just another touch added to an infinite number of touches, as if you are more aware of him than you are of yourself.)_

“It’s alright; I’ve got you.”

***

Miyamura-sensei purses her lips at Haruka’s canvas.

“Technically, Nanase-kun,” she says, arms crossed, “this is a very solid sketch – but it is flat. I can’t discern any _feeling_ from it.”

She taps her foot against the ground. “I’m going to have to ask you to do this again; it really isn’t at an acceptable level for a final project. Remember,” she softens a little, giving Haruka a winsome smile, “art is as much about _passion_ as proficiency.”

***

Lying on his side in their – too small – bed, Rin sets his chin on Haruka’s shoulder, arm thrown loosely over Haruka’s waist. He has just come out of the shower, hair still damp and smelling strongly of shampoo. There is still the ever-present scent of chlorine, though, underneath the soap.

Haruka angles his pencil so the flat of the tip is against the paper.

“Still drawing?” Rin breaks the silence, voice husky in the way that raises the hair at the nape of Haruka’s neck.

Haruka crosses one ankle over the other. “Mm.”

Rin reaches up to flick his finger against the side of Haruka’s cheek. “You look tired. How was school?”

Haruka shrugs. “Fine.” He blocks in a shadow, and immediately hates it. His eraser is too far away, though, and Haruka doesn’t feel like getting up.

Undeterred by Haruka’s lack of enthusiasm in the conversation, Rin says, “you were going to show your professor your portrait sketch today, weren’t you? How’d it go?”

 _On second thought, this is unsalvageable_. Haruka rips the paper out, crumpling it up and tossing it in the general vicinity of the trashcan. Surprisingly, it goes in.

“I have to start over,” Haruka says. “She didn’t like it.”

Rin frowns. “Why?” he asks, “it was really good,” with the staunch, whole-hearted confidence of the ignorant.

“If I knew,” Haruka mutters, “I’d fix it.” The pencil tip vibrates against the next, blank page, leaving a series of erratic dots on its surface.

“Hey,” Rin says, closing his hand over Haruka’s knuckles, sun-browned to Haruka’s pale-as-milk, “calm down; it’s going to be fine. Here, look – loosen your fist; your hands are shaking.” He pries Haruka’s fingers open, lying them flat on top of Haruka’s bent knees. “And put that stuff away – you’ll give yourself RSI.”

His voice brokers no argument. Haruka puts the sketchpad away.

“Good,” Rin says, and gives Haruka a squeeze before reaching over him to turn the lamp off. “Night, Haru,” he says, voice disembodied in the darkness. “Go to sleep, okay?”

What seems like an eternity later, Haruka shifts under the weight of Rin’s arm, reaching out to turn the alarm clock on the bedside table towards him. Two o’clock, the clock face proclaims, blue in the dimness of the room. Haruka pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes, extricates himself from Rin’s grip, and goes to the living room.

***

“Say, did you know this statue is thirty-eight meters tall?”

“We’re on flight five of twelve now, Haru.”

“It’s been ten minutes since we started.”

“You’re being awfully quiet, Haru.”

_(It is a funny thing to say; you are (almost) always quiet. There is more than one reason for this. One is that while you aren’t particularly shy, you are reserved. The other, more significant reason, is: often times there are so many things you want to say they turn into a jumble inside your head and you aren’t sure where the beginnings and endings of your thoughts are. Instead, you are caught up in an endless series of middles, stretching for miles, with no directions at all.)_

“Haru – are you listening to me?”

“Your voice echoes.”

_(When you do speak, though – )_

***

The flowers on Miyamura-sensei’s office walls are hand-painted. Haruka can tell because of the imperfections in the petals, and how the colors have the look of a controlled accident instead of meticulous precision.

Haruka thinks about the lines of version two of his self-portrait: pristine, fixed, defined.

Across her desk, Miyamura-sensei pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.

“Nanase-kun,” she says, “do you have any hobbies?”

Silence stretches between them.

“Things you like to do, other than drawing?”

“Not really,” Haruka says, finally.

Miyamura-sensei arches her eyebrows. “What about something you used to do – that you don’t, anymore?”

“Nothing comes to mind,” Haruka says stiffly.

The professor sighs. “I’m sure there’s something,” she says. “Well, you don’t need to tell me, but I suggest you think about the things you like to do outside of art. Try reconnecting with something you used to enjoy. And come back when you have something a little different.”

***

Inside the natatorium, the air is cold. It burns Haruka’s nose and throat, but his lungs seem to expand of their own accord: inhale, hold, exhale. The bare concrete floor is raspy under the soles of his feet. Haruka sits by the pool edge, trouser legs bunched up around his knees.

Rin is at the far end of the pool, almost fifty meters away. He is swimming freestyle.

It has been a while since Haruka has watched Rin swim, but nothing has changed. Rin swims the way he always has: powerful and controlled, but with an underlying lack of inhibition and wildness, as if there is a predator lurking beneath his skin.

Other people might consider it a flaw – but like the flowers on Miyamura-sensei’s wall, there is a certain beauty in this imperfection of Rin’s – like the way he still manages to cut himself shaving, sometimes, and how he always overcooks the rice when it is his turn to make dinner, and how, no matter how hard he tries not to, he always tells Haruka the (cold, hard, blunt) truth.

“Haru?” Rin says, wonderingly. “What are you doing here?”

Haruka holds a hand out to help him from the water. Rin sits next to him, eyes fixed on Haruka’s face.

“Class finished early,” Haruka says, as calmly as he can.

“Okay,” Rin says. “But – why aren’t you at home?”

Haruka looks away, over the water. In the second lane, there is a blond boy swimming breaststroke.  

“I wanted to come see you.”

The words hover in the air.

 It has been a month and a half since the term began: two months since they moved to Tokyo and Rin began training for the Olympics. Six months since the disastrous meet that landed Sousuke in physiotherapy and Haruka in a counselor’s office.

Haruka takes a deep breath, and makes himself look back at Rin. “So,” he begins, and then stops, wets his lips, “are non-members allowed to swim here, or should I go back to the bathub?”

Rin clears his throat. His eyes are more vivid than they have been in a while. “Sure, non-members are allowed,” he says, voice hoarse and almost imperceptibly shaky, “but only if they swim freestyle.”

***

“Haru – open your eyes, now.”

“ – there’s nothing here.”

“Look _up_ , silly.”

“Rin, there’s just a hole in the ceiling.”

“Come on – we’re almost there. Follow me, Haru?”

_(There is a ladder, too, but it’s worth playing dumb, seeing the look of fond exasperation on his face. He shakes you a little, too bright for the dark, enclosed space you are standing in, as if he is lantern in a tunnel, and you are the moth to his flame.)_

***

In the living room, Haruka drapes a sheet over the mirror. He moves the chair from in front of the easel to the side. With broad, sweeping strokes, he erases the sketch of his self-portrait off the canvas.

The first time Haruka went swimming, he was four years old. He remembers it was a little past sunrise, and that it was cold, and that his father had waded chest-deep into the shallows and held out his arms.

“Come on,” his father had said. “You’re going to have to trust me.”

At the time, Haruka did not know what drowning was: just that, one moment, the water was lapping at his ankles, and the next, it was swallowing him whole. The strongest human instinct, Haruka’s father said later, was that of self-preservation.

“Everything we do,” he explained, “is to survive.”

Standing in front of his empty canvas, Haruka squeezes blue paint onto the palette. He picks up his brush – a large, square #18 – and lifts a liberal amount of paint onto the bristles.

After that first swimming lesson with his father, Haruka sat on the beach, huddled inside a towel, shivering with cold and nerves.

“Survival isn’t the same as living,” Haruka’s father said, then and again years later, when he moved to Tottori following a promotion. “Survival is a necessity. It’s something we do without thinking. But living is a choice, and choices require strength.”

The day they graduated from high school, Makoto told Haruka, “I’m going to work my way up, Haru-chan. I believe I can,” and he is – he’s already made regulars on the swim team at Tottori University –

When Rin asked Haruka to move in with him Haruka said, “I hate swimming,” as if it – swimming and Rin – were inextricably linked, and in a way they are, _but so is everything else:_

The brush slides across the canvas the way a body slides through water, a wide blue trail in its wake.

***

_(It is 2016, and it is in Rio, that you earn your first gold medal: first place in the 100 meter freestyle. Pithy and clean, the commentators say about your swimming style: not a wasted movement: grace exemplified._

_Later, when you are back home, you will hang both your medals on the wall by Rin’s three. Not a bad start, you will think, for a hopeless romantic and a stubborn, pessimistic fool._

_In the moment: you stand on the pedestal by Rin’s side, one hand around your medal, the other clasped tight in Rin’s. The roar of the crowd thrums in your ears. It is hard not to smile.)_

***

“I don’t usually accept new members in the middle of the term,” Rin’s swim coach declares staunchly. “If I make an exception for you, you will be on probation for the first month. You will only be allowed to join if you are serious and determined about winning.”

“Yes, sir.” Haruka wraps the strap of his goggles around his finger.

“Here, Nanase-kun,” the coach says, “we aim to represent Japan at the Olympics. I won’t have any half-hearted athletes in my pool.”

Haruka nods. “Understood, sir.”

“Good,” the coach says, briskly. “You have potential – but it’s _up to you_ what you choose to do with it.”

***

_(You take his hand and let him pull you up and out until you step out onto the head of Christ the Redeemer. At the bottom of the mountain, Rio lies sprawled at your feet, the city on one side, the sea on the other, miles and miles of it as far as you can see._

_Up so high, the wind is bracing, whipping color into your cheeks and pulling at your clothing –_

_Rin yells in exhilaration, tipping his head back, arms thrown out as if to embrace the sky:_

 

_\- and first, you smile,_

 

_and then you laugh,_

 

  _and then you cry.)_

***

“I see you worked through your block,” Miyamura-sensei says warmly. “Wonderful job, Nanase-kun.”

Haruka inclines his head.

“I don’t see a title, though,” the professor says. “What are you going to call it?”

Haruka smiles.

“It’s called – _._ ”

 

 

_(free.)_

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_end._

 


End file.
